Drought

 

Drought, red broken earth, a ramshackle house, a clothing line, a hole on fire,

the hand hovering -there is no time left

 

Monks

The monks sing gregorian chants.

She wakes up in a dime motel -the walls peeling- with somebody next to her.

The monks chanting at five o'clock in the morning: she gets up and listens.

She wishes the city did not exist

Radio

The radio in the background the tv in the background the washing machine in the background the turntable in the background our Mother in the middle weeping

Door

 

She walks towards the door: the bell is ringing

 she sits down on the stair and waits

 the sun sparkle through the window

 she cannot open the door

Rain

 

 

We look around our neighbourhood: we have yet to remember all the names. We walk the streets. The rain, our companion, casts its indifference, we retreat to the past.

Posted with Blogsy

One

one o'clock in the morning queueing to get in the cinema cannot contain the skin nowhere to go a baby cries

garden II

We love our garden, it is small, all our plants die every year but we keep trying we want our old flowers our known colours the texture of the past we cannot see our present